They chase and race one another around the house. We can always tell when a mad dash is about to be initiated if we're not right there where they are, witnessing them crouching-off against one another, one at one end of the room, the other at the opposite, in position, daring one another to begin the chase. If we're not there to witness the run-off, we can hear the challenging little barks that reflect one or the other initiating the ritual.

And off they go, their little paws thudding against the floor, the carpeting, up stairs, down stairs, all around the house. When we're downstairs and they're on the upper floor we know exactly where they are from the thumping rush of their skinny little legs. It's amazing how sound carries. It's astonishing that little creatures like that can, with the sheer momentum of their mad dashes raise a gallop that can sound like a miniature herd of elephants dashing about.

And it's amusing to witness their antics; brief intermissions where the dashes turn into face-to-face, paw-to-paw wrestling, each upright on hind legs, pummelling one another in a bid for primacy, where neither is prepared to give way, though Jillie has the advantage in weight and Jackie the slighter advantage in height, and perhaps even gender.

When things really get frantic he leaps with incredible grace and blink-eyed lightning-swiftness onto the sofa, the back of the sofa, down again in one fluid swoop while she, with no faith in her leaping capacity, leaps at the edge of the sofa in frustrated puzzlement. And in reverse, once they're both at ground level again, she will duck under the large coffee table in the family room, and dart out repeatedly to its edges, daring him to join her  underneath the table, and he never will, instead snapping at her each time she darts out, until they both make a final dash and suddenly surrender themselves to exhaustion.

At which point, it's time to look for any handy chewies, strips of rawhide, the favourites of which are those washed with chicken flavouring. Occasionally they'll tackle their antler horns, but they're not favourites. He will retire with a special treat, a hard-twisted rope of rawhide, in one of their little beds, while she hauls hers under the coffee table, each seeking the isolation from the other that permits them the challenge-free leisure to pursuit their chewing frenzy uninterrupted.